


what’s wrong, what’s wrong now? (too many, too many problems)

by azvremoon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: /dreamsmp rp, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Light Angst, Not A Fix-It, Time Travel, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, tommy leaves pre-exile l’manburg to live a cottage core lifestyle but the universe hates him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azvremoon/pseuds/azvremoon
Summary: Techno’s rough expression melts into blatant confusion at the sight of his youngest brother, who in turn tugs the lapels of his oversized coat around his skinny frame.Tommy’s hands twist into the material, willing it to ground him back down to earth where a lifetime of avoiding his family should await him instead.(In the aftermath of the Butcher Army’s failed execution, Technoblade is found by his runaway brother, who knows too much of a future that is yet to exist.)
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 397





	what’s wrong, what’s wrong now? (too many, too many problems)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s blatantly obvious by this point that I’m a Tommy apologist. I swear I’ll write a happy SBI family dynamic someday. 
> 
> As always, this is about the characters in the DreamSMP lore, not the content creators who play those characters.

Tommy has grown to be one with the woods and the birds that line the edge of his roof now know to instinctively chirp and screech at a single sigh of incoming danger.

Their uneasy cries rouses him from his spot, hunched over his table as he scribbles into another book, the quill shaking in his hands. He was in the midst of venting his thoughts, just as Puffy had advised him to in a future that is yet to exist, but now someone is dragging him out of that safe space.

He rises from the wooden chair that offers little comfort to his aching muscles, striding over creaking floorboards to grab the repaired trench coat that lies in a heap by the door. There are numerous patches over its worn fabric but Tommy slides it on anyways, finding comfort in how it completely blankets his skinny frame, offering solely missed warmth.

And so with, with nothing but his dead brother’s coat on his person, he curls his fingers over the doorknob and cracks it open an inch, wincing at the sudden blast of ice cold air. Tommy peers out through the gap and for a moment, there is nothing amiss, until he spots a large patch of footprints in the winter snow.

Tracing them till he finds the jackpot, he barely holds back an amused scoff. For there, crumpled at the bottom of his stairs, lies a supposedly unbeatable warrior, his formerly pristine demeanour cracked and shattered to reveal the humanity beneath. The butcher’s army had mined their way through Technoblade’s facade and yet are not even here to witness such a spectacle. 

Tommy pushes the door open fully, stepping out into the falling snowflakes and scrunching his nose at the invasive feeling as the breeze pricks and stabs at his skin. He’s a boy controlled more by emotion than rational thought and somehow, even though this body has never faced exile, he’s still far too accustomed to the climate of a sandy shore.

By now, through years of trial and error, Tommy has learned to tread lightly, how to hide his tracks and keep himself hidden and nestled away from this server’s harshest opponents. But Techno is a hybrid with all the pros and cons such an existence brings, and his pointed, elongated ears quickly catch the sound of sneakers hitting the snow. 

His neck snaps towards the origin of the sound, baring his teeth in a feral growl that Tommy assumes would be enough to scare off any incoming monster wanting to gorge on the man. But Tommy feels little alarm at the sight, partially because he has seen something much, much worse with the name disownment malform his sharp features.

Techno’s rough expression melts into blatant confusion at the sight of his youngest brother, who in turn tugs the lapels of his oversized coat around his skinny frame as he stares down with equal parts disinterest and unwanted sympathy. Tommy’s hands twist into the material, willing it to ground him back down to earth where a lifetime of avoiding his family should await him instead.

But Tommy was born and bred by this server to become a hero and that lesson will always stick despite his best efforts. He marches forward, the training of L’Manburg’s small military echoing through his head. It’s easy to just slam the hilt of his sword into the back of Techno’s head and send him sprawling into unconsciousness. 

Nurses would not praise him for his bedside manner but Tommy has no want to listen to slurred and yet just as dramatic speeches, not when his nightmares still call him Thesues. He hauls his brother’s too large body up into his feeble grasp, dragging him up rickety stairs that can barely handle any weight. Tommy has never been the best at building, after all. 

He’s not the best at healing, either. It seems he was always made for war, to hold weapons in hands too calloused for a teenager, armour stacked over a frame that had yet to grow in a manner that wasn’t awkward and gangly. But he has his knowledge from the revolution and he doesn’t want to let his brother bleed out on a roughly made couch.

Tommy scrambles to the room right at the very back of his cabin, buried beneath cobblestone and dirt in case of any monster-made men stumbling across his humble abode. There is a lone chest, placed by the few brewing stands he had managed to travel with, and he digs his hands into the mess of glass bottles eagerly, knocking aside the many, many weakness potions that take residence there.

There’s a few for healing, but Tommy is well aware that they won’t fix every issue, not when Tommy’s better with his charm than his ability to craft, not when Techno has too many open wounds hidden beneath his surface that could never be stitched up with something so simple. Lashing out is Tommy’s unhealthy coping mechanism and the refusal to allow anyone too close is Techno’s own.

Nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get back to the main room, Tommy sinks down onto the floor and surveys the state of the man as he uncorks a bottle and drips the first regeneration potion down the other’s throat. There’s burns around the edges of white sleeves, likely from just barely dodging a creeper blast, and his cloak is soaked in blood, red caked through his usually soft hair.

Granted, it likely isn’t Techno’s own blood, not when the man is considered a deity of war for a reason. But there are still tears in his usually spotless dress shirt and Tommy cannot help but be intrigued that exhaustion managed to best a man often viewed as a god. Gentle despite the tenseness to his muscles, Tommy sets himself on cleaning the man up to the best of his abilities.

He soaks a cloth in a bucket of warm water, carefully brushing over the shallow cuts that line his brother’s arms and the curve of his jaw, making sure to avoid those sharp tusks and pointed claws. Just a few years ago, but somehow eons before this moment at the same time, Tommy would have had to rely on books from this house’s slowly expanding library to teach him the methods to dealing with injuries.

But Tommy is a consequence of war now, a somewhat child who knows too much but should only be aware of so little. Pushing strands of sweat-soaked hair out of the way of Techno’s boar mask, lifting the skull off his face with far more care than it deserves, he takes the antiseptic ointment he had found amongst his measly medical supplies and rubs it over the most noticeable lacerations.

Perhaps his efforts will do little to save Techno from the smallest of scars. He wouldn’t put it past the messy state of his storage for the ointment to be out of date, but there is little need for that kind of aid here. It has been a very long time since Tommy has had the desire to fight. After all, he is too tired to break his knuckles in an attempt to seek any sort of attention, no matter whether or not it came with a serving of fatherly disappointment.

Recklessness is a matter of his past now and the hostile mobs here are happy to avoid his cabin, as if some sort of plague festers behind its door. Those most comfortable with the otherworldly can sense the wrongness in his bones, for his mind and the memories that tell of a time long gone that has yet to arrive do not belong here.

In turn, peaceful creatures flock to his home as a safe haven away from predators, for there is no need to fear the slashing of a sword here. Rabbits rest in the grooves of his carrot farm and a sheep coated in vibrant blue stands guard by his gate. Tommy cannot bring himself to shoo them away, because even if it has only ever brought him struggles, he’s always had a bit of saviour complex.

It is not as if these animals have the ability to betray his trust. They have no grasp of human language to berate him for his constant failings and in them, creatures that are too mute to voice their troubles, Tommy finds a sense of comradery, for he too is seeking a place of recovery. This small stretch of land has no name, only one human heart beating in its borders, and perhaps that is enough for it to escape the violence cursed into this server’s soil. 

There is not much more Tommy can do and so he stands, knees likely bruised from crashing against the floor in his rush. Carefully, he sinks his own hands into the bucket and watches the water sweep away the blood, pale skin now free of any sign of the conflict that has breached the walls of his home. It’s still not enough to wipe away Tommy’s own sins in the worship of war.

Shakily, tremors beginning to rattle through his spine as he realises the weight of his actions, Tommy tumbles over to his kitchen counter, desperately seeking for something to do with his restless hands so he doesn’t spend the next few hours, as he waits for the sunrise, biting his nails till they are nothing but stubs.

He settles for stirring together a hot chocolate, the special blend that Wilbur had taught him through step by step, even if the nostalgic taste isn’t enough to soothe his worries. Tommy rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the headache that pokes and prods at the inside of his skull. He tries to convince himself that facing Techno head on was always going to be inescapable. He fails.

Escaping his family when he had woken up on that battlefield, skin still trembling through the after effects of radiation poisoning even if the nukes had suddenly ceased to exist, had seemed like a good idea for the first few seconds. It had transformed into an excellent one when Techno told him to die like a hero and he had to witness his brother collapse into a pool of his own blood for the second time over.

And so he ran. Maybe he could have stayed, could have tried to worm his way back into his family’s hearts even if that seemed impossible when he remembered Phil’s blank, uncaring expression as he watched explosions rattle the earth from a platform crafted of obsidian. But Tommy has given enough chances to too many people and it seems as if it's impossible for him not to be disappointed in the end.

He imagines he probably would have not been able to stay a minute in that arctic snow without spilling his guts, vomiting at the thought of frostbite and broken promises. Grudges are his area of expertise and he will never find it in himself to be forgiving, not when Techno’s violence is always deserving of Phil’s absolvation. 

That forgiveness has never been his father’s to bestow, not when the eldest brother’s crimes have never affected such a neglectful man. And yet Wilbur was condemned to an eternity in that void for his own malicious acts. At least Wilbur had once known how to be kind for the sake of it. Tommy can’t look into Techno’s eyes anymore without searching for an ulterior motive.

Turning back the clock changed nothing. It simply delayed the inevitable. Tommy accepted long ago that he was never his family’s priority and he won’t allow them the chance to fool him all over ago. And so he waits, hours ticking by until shades of orange and gold rise over the skyline, casting light through the windows that lead out into the forest that has claimed Tommy as its own.

It won’t take long for Techno to stir, not when his brow is beginning to twitch as the effects of the potions begin to wear off. Tommy can’t tear his eyes away, not when he isn’t accustomed to seeing someone living draped over his couch, not when the few visitors he has had over these past few quiet months had never set foot on his welcoming mat. 

Tubbo tends to bring his new enderman friend along nowadays and Tommy had forgotten the foresight to build a tall enough doorway, so they spend their time together beneath the tree branches, soaking in the sun or shivering in the snow. They never mention any unrest in L’Manburg and withholding information isn’t the same as a lie, but it’s just as much of a sin. Tommy lets them off the hook for that. He doesn’t like thinking of that nation himself either.

Sam visits, from time to time, a few weeks between his departure and arrival as he runs himself ragged for one of Dream’s new projects. He offers resources, a few stacks of cobblestone and some books to add to the collection, and Tommy’s drive to be headstrong dissipates in front of his mentor. They spend hours together, building small additions to his home, Sam beginning to pick up on childish games as the part of Tommy that still has the energy to yearn for a father figure sings in content. 

Niki had promised to deliver him treats from her bakery and she shows up on his doorstep every weekend, newly dyed hair pulled back into a ponytail, pants still stained with flour and a pastel box of cupcakes in her hands. Tommy always stares into soft yet haunted eyes and wonders if she hates him enough yet to poison her next batch of cookies. Still, he greets her with little protest as they sit together on the bench in his garden and take turns passing stories, pretending as if the world isn’t crumbling at their feet.

Tommy pretends he does not see Karl on occasion, hiding behind the tree lines, eyeing him with blatant suspicion. For Tommy is not acting the role history had so eagerly handed him and Karl has interfered so little yet for such a big change to occur to this story’s protagonist. There is little Tommy can do to ease his stares and if he invites Quackity over more often to distract the man, no one has to know. 

Dream had come once, mocking tone already slipping from his mouth, but Tommy had refused to cave to the taunts of his manipulator. He would have cracked one of the discs over his knee if he still had an ender chest in his possession. Tommy doesn’t care about what that music stands for now, not when the tunes of Cat and Mellohi have only brought disaster, not when the sound of them stuck in a jukebox makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

Still, even as more and more of his once comrades arrived at Tommy's cabin, it had become an unspoken agreement amongst both the people of L’Manburg and the Esempi: do not, under any circumstances, allow what remains of Tommy’s family to know his whereabouts. He’s sure even Ranboo, as forgetful as he may be, has it written in his memory book to never lead a pink-haired piglin hybrid and a man with the wings of a bird here.

They had faced some of the trauma first hand themselves, withers spawned in abundance even if Techno had not been the one to light the TNT this time, although Tommy is certain he will take the secrets of the pit to his grave. And while Techno did not linger in the crater that had once been a nation, Phil had, and everyone had seen Tommy flinch away from his father’s embrace, Phil’s green cloak still soaked in the blood of a former president. 

Tommy had not found it in himself to complain about his allies’ blatant pity, not when it works in his favour. He is not sixteen anymore, not really, and there is no naivety left in him to believe that his family won’t raze everything he has sacrificed two of lives for to the ground once again. He has stood in the ashes of L’Maburg three times over and he has no want to believe in second chances, even if the spotlight just can’t seem to stop shining on him, guiding his family to his seclusion.

Techno is kin with the piglins, but Tommy has always considered him more of a wolf with a pack of his fellow hounds trailing at his heels, always ready to pounce in the name of anarchy. One wrong move and then Techno will huff and puff and blow Tommy’s will to live in. And yet, here Tommy is, still unable to detach himself from the tight grip of his familial roots. 

His gaze does not stray from his brother and he watches dark eyes blink open, his braid of tangled hair tumbling over Techno’s shoulder as he rises. A sudden spell of revulsion hits Tommy, fingers threading through his own long strands that have grown beyond control in a mirror image of himself in exile. He had once seen that growth as a sign of how long had passed since he found freedom. Now, it’s just another reminder that he will always be just a little bit like his brothers no matter how hard he tries to escape that connection.

The scars that no longer creep off the curve of his shoulder blades ache in memoriam, the wings that he shares with his father quivering beneath the tight compression of his shirt. When Tommy blinks, wood turns to sand, and he can see a pile of gore-stained feathers being dragged away by the pull of the waves. He blinks again and he is back in his cabin, back in the past, back to still having the skin-crawling reminder of his heritage. 

His mouth does not move, but his gaze speaks for him. _Leave,_ Tommy’s stare states as he coldly ignores the almost pleading edge to Techno’s eyes. Without a mask to help strengthen his act, his eyes are bare for all to see and while the hybrid is masterful at lying to himself, he has never been able to force the emotions that overwhelm the voices that crave blood out of his gaze. 

Blue eyes glint with barely concealed anger and Tommy burns like a wildfire, sparking with all of the power of fireworks exploding against a presidential platform. Techno stumbles forward on uncertain feet, hand outstretched as if he can barely believe Tommy is in front of him, and the blonde simply shakes his head. Together, they make the picture perfect image of broken trust.

Tommy does not owe this man anything, certainly not the sound of his voice that has grown dull and stilted from a lack of use. Techno will never understand the plight he has brought his youngest brother, but Tommy has never expected any less, not when hypocrisy and denial are two of the Antarctic Empire’s defining traits. They had all inherited a sense of stubbornness from their father. Tommy wonders where all that went when Phil decided to put a sword through Wilbur’s chest.

Brothers are supposed to not give up on each other, but Tommy is aware that both he and Wilbur had lost faith in the meaning of family a long time ago. Phil and Techno take and take without even realising and Tommy has nothing left to present them with but resentment. It doesn’t even hurt when he has to hold a sword to Techno’s throat for his brother to get the message. 

Technoblade could turn to half-hearted excuses. Instead, his fingers curl into the holes of his mask and he slides it over his nose, shadows overtaking his eyes until Tommy can no longer discern what lies beneath his stoic expression. Tommy wonders how long it will take for the forlorn glaze to Techno’s gaze to grow cold, yearning turning to distrust as he marks his brother a traitor for circumstances beyond Tommy’s control.

A door slams shut and Tommy is all alone again, fresh footprints leading away from his cabin decorating the morning snow. A phantom arm curls over his shoulder in an absent form of comfort as Tommy’s hard effort goes to waste, his co-ordinates now known by his greatest weakness: a toxic family he could never stop running back to. Dye-stained fingers pry apart the harsh curl of his fist and a bundle of blue falls into his open palm. 

It is meant to be a heart-warming gesture. Instead, Tommy just feels so, so cold.


End file.
